


With A Twist

by Kit (inseparable)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-21
Updated: 2014-08-21
Packaged: 2018-02-14 02:17:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2174286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inseparable/pseuds/Kit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Time hangs heavy for Robb and Jon while they wait for their meal. Their solution? Alcohol with a twist of lemon. Who knew a sticky situation could be so sweet.</p><p>A modern AU; Bromley, Greater London, BR2 0EF.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With A Twist

**Author's Note:**

> For the remarkable [Tarotemp](http://tarotemp.livejournal.com/profile), my red ink pen and constant supporter; I've run out of ways to express my love for you but hopefully this suffices. Many blessings on your birthday, and may your next spin round the sun be chock-a-block with porn and (melted!) chocolate. 
> 
> Also, a special thanks to [Neloire](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Neliore), who was able to confirm - in no legally binding terms - my sanity.

Jon could deal with being laughed at. A lifetime of conditioning on instant recall ensured he never felt embarrassed admitting to Robb over the years his more... _peculiar_ preferences.

A penchant for books over evening telly, for example. 

Source of good-natured ribbing between the lads, stubby round nose was oft found pressed to ink of favoured dog-eared novel while cold toes dug for warmth amongst couch cushions. Sharp, incessant wee beasties, ten root rats digging for shelter and prodding Robb in the thigh while he flicked the clicker. BBC Four, BBC Two, Sky to Dave, whinging all through latest QI episode, “ _Jon!_ Watch this with me. It'll improve your quiz machine scores. We could buy a bigger box with the winnings!”

Then there was the local Village Store on Beckenham Lane. Ideal market trip round the bend whenever they were out of milk for tea, walking the half mile instead of begging a lift to Asda from the vegan bint downstairs sweet on Robb and obviously dimwitted from all the tofu.

Jon would rather read subtitles during a film than subject himself to the displaced English accents where French ought to preside. Liked wine over beer, gin more than vodka. No matter how many times his very Scottish lover prattled on about rot gut and suspension of disbelief, inflation vs. bulk resale and never getting caught in the rain a constant plague in his Pictish mind which would veg in permanent zombie status before ever picking up a mag with more words than skin.

Talk about rot.

Their differences had never bothered Jon, though. He cherished them; hoarded in fierce possession greater than that of a dragon pregnant vane birthing endless riches after winters of mining dirt to find their relationship worth every speck of slag and common ore form of disagreements and outside ridicule. Worth it to admit he'd never been properly rat-arsed drunk – _even_ in their years spent apart attending separate unis – and all the guffawing and near violent arm flagging which had followed his offhand remark. Didn't mind being ordered to nip down the bloody shop and damn well buy gin _and_ vodka, lemons and caster sugar. Could deal with being laughed at because after all they'd been through, Robb's laughter was his own personal Arkenstone. 

Not that Robb even knew what that was for all his topical news shows and pop cultural trivia.

Mr. Clean and Sober stood now, rather, _propped_ himself against the linoleum, a tripod of bent knees and toes keeping tipsy bairn from tumbling headfirst into the oven door. Jon pressed his nose to the black-tinted glass and wondered why they simply didn't have clear fronts because seeing through the tint was stupid. Not to mention frustrating.

Within the inferno, Tesco's cheap _Aunt Bessie's Frozen Toad in a Hole_ sat roasting on the top rack, evening's entrée beginning to crisp brown above oven-ready chips because for once their preferences had aligned.

Sky pissing it down like a drunken chav against nearest brick wall, neither could be bothered to pop round Shortland's Kebab House for a proper meal tonight. Even if they rang in and hoofed it, the storefront was miniscule and bound to be teaming with local hooligans on a Friday night. No room at the inn for a couple of gay blokes left to huddle under striped blue-white awning as Mr. Mansaur wrapped up their order. By the time they'd make it back, warmth from homemade cocktails would be a kindling of its former blaze, kofta kebabs and chips gone all soggy muck in the inclement weather.

Besides, Jon rather _liked_ oven chips. Something the lads agreed on wholeheartedly, even if roasting time was not.

“They done yet?”

“Fuck knows,” Robb sang to the tune of _Check the packaging, ya tit!_ disharmonic response grumbled through alcohol-thickened lilt. He leaned closer, freckled nose joining its mate leaving piggy smudges against the tempered glass. “They look... squishy?”

Jon shifted clumsily to accommodate the lump at his shoulder, booze already drowning equilibrium and hand-eye coordination. He wasn't _drunk_ , as such, but sobriety had fled into that long dark night a cocktail and two shots ago.

With the oven fan whirring, he wondered on its invisible powers and if this was what cavemen used to do; squat round blazing camp fires and grunt at one another, prodding meat with sticks and nudging their mates out of the way for rights to the best observation point. He thought too, perhaps, he wouldn't exactly mind if Robb _was_ a caveman. Half a brute already, his large teeth and larger mouth lay claim to lover's shoulder, gnawing habits driven by a hunger for more than just tea.

“Yeah, I reckon they’re done.”

“Sausages aren't even sweating yet, Jon.”

“Well, pardon me, Aunt Bessie, do go on, then. We'll leave the sausage handling to the more 'experienced,' shall we?”

Scrabbling to his feet, Jon found a new roost against the counter, seat of trousers anchored to tile and grout. He watched Robb watch. He thought watching Robb watch was not much better than watching himself. 

Minutes ticked by in a hazy stupor before, “Fancy another bevvie?” broke through sounds of the ancient cooker failing in its basic function.

“Dunno. Think I should?'”

“Aye. If you're sober enough to ask, I think you should.”

Bounding to his feet in a display of litheness – he profoundly Scottish, Jon English, penchant and handicap for drink in their very bloods respectively – Robb set to work mixing the next round.

Their kitchen was tiny. A galley so narrow a person could run the tap for tea without cherry red cast iron kettle ever leaving the hob. In accordance with all forms of logic, the washer opened the wrong way, as well – particularly annoying for Jon who was often forced to jam Herculean shoulders between its portal round door and lower cupboards to rescue that elusive left sock – and the fridge-freezer was so compact they could drain its contents in a single meal. 

Robb termed the features of their kitchenette _charming_ , and if it weren't for his burr and the way R’s rolls off his tongue, raising goosebumps across the back of partner’s neck in groin swelling fashion, he'd pop him one in the git mouth.

But the kitchen, as well as the rest of the tiny, East London flat, was theirs. And that made it special. It also made it incredibly easy to stare lewdly at Robb's arse while he sliced into a lemon, mashing tines into the fruit and proceeding to squirt juice all over the counter, his hands, pretty much everywhere but into the gimlet.

“Ruddy fucking fork, I’m telling you, Jon, _again_ , we need a juicer.”

There was no reply. Simply a raised, bushy black eyebrow at the whole messy process. Too many opportunities for repost swarmed in Jon’s high-octane brain drowning without starch to float upon. Impossible to dredge through the silt and select proper retort at this point, he instead draped an arm over boyfriend’s right shoulder, cupping at moderately firmed pectorals, left hand gripping bony hip and using his bloke as a prop rather than the impassive counter.

Robb dumped the first lemon half into the basin and reached for the second; they'd been together long enough that inmate embrace wasn't cumbersome, but when same hazardous juicing occurred half a heartbeat later with the same innocent bystanders victimised - counter, hands, pretty much everything except the gimlet - he cast a despondent sigh.

“M’lemon's not cooperating.”

Seeds dropped into the glass but Robb, fucking _determined_ as he was stubborn, set to fishing them out with the fork. Jon continued to stare; at the fork injustice, at the juice dripping between long, normally graceful fingers gone all fidgety in annoyance, and snickered.

“You're having your arse kicked by a fruit.”

“You're the fruit,” pithy, shot-from-the-hip comeback complete with pip flung over the shoulder met with Jon’s throaty snerk as he trailed hand from hip to wrist. 

Bidding farewell to the remains of unfaithful lemons he sucked juice from Robb's pinky finger, then remaining phalanges to hand, chasing tartness wherever it led over pads and heart and life lines wished long and unbroken. 

Taking care to wriggle tip of his tongue down the center of Robb’s palm directed affections to inside wrist where Jon knew from years of exploration skin paper-thin and translucent would mar with the gentlest graze of teeth. Not that he was gentle; marking _Mine_ over heightened pulse just another treasure-hungry X drawn into the sand. 

Pretending he'd missed a spot and thinking himself completely clever – rouged cheeks swollen with tipsy grin as he turned Robb to face him – Jon bent over, mouthing jean-clad thigh, lapping lightly at imaginary map keys. He traced a path of invisible citrus up Robb's shirt – tonight a threadbare David Bowie tee, Thin White Duke era, naturally – silently declaring his tracking skills, a dozen nip-snag-tug of teeth paces to juncture of fabric and ginger hairs, onward to the salty-sweet shoreline of Robb's neck.

Bevvies abandoned at the onslaught, Robb’s hand cupped midnight ringlets to act every bit the daydreamed caveman pulling his bloke in for a kiss less termed as such and more the clacking of teeth and zinging taste of lemon. He found himself trapped then, gleefully so, pressed against the counter with a heated, sticky lad between his thighs; the darting thrust of tongues bringing about sharp flavors of something else entirely.

There was a pause. Sapphire met Tiger’s gem eyes, casting smoldering, playful looks at one another before time lurched forward in a grapple for hems and zips on trouser plackets, lads keen but clumsy settled into their drink. 

Brief last glance at abandoned oven and countertop a veritable wasteland of sticky sweetness and cardboard packagings, Jon considered the evening’s events in over-analytical fashion deemed another of his many peculiar preferences. 

Maybe Robb knew a thing or two about oven-ready meals and getting delightfully pished. Might be he chose in the future to set aside his books now and again and watch the telly when prompted, or save up to purchase a car so they didn’t have to walk in the rain _or_ \- more importantly - flirt a lift from the slag downstairs. 

One thing for certain, however, Robb knew absobloodyfuck _nothing_ about squash. 

A mental pledge was penned and signed the very moment Jon sunk to his knees – _Never,_ ever, _buy Robb a juicer_. – because twisting by hand was so much better.


End file.
